


An Idea, Like a Ghost

by dS_Tiff



Category: due South
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Ghosts, Humor, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 05:53:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9478460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dS_Tiff/pseuds/dS_Tiff
Summary: Bob has an unexpected encounter with Turnbull.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ButterflyGhost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/gifts).



> This scene is set right at the end of Season 3/4 of due South, just before the events of Call of the Wild. The idea sprung from a conversation I had with Butterfly Ghost about Turnbull on the due South forums. (Please come and join us at [William and Elyse's due South Forums](http://s6.zetaboards.com/Due_South/index/) for more dS chat.)
> 
> All comments welcome. Thank you kindly!

“Oh dear.” Constable Benton Fraser stood motionless in the hallway of the Canadian Consulate building as the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place.

“I think you've got the wrong man, son. Well, woman in this case.” Next to him stood the ghost of his father, Sergeant Robert Fraser, known to his friends - in life and in death - as Bob. The clues in this particular case had eluded him too, even with all his experience as an RCMP officer. “Never be afraid to admit you’ve made a mistake, son,” he added. “I taught you that.” 

“Sarah had access to all three safes, she tricked Brian into giving her the reset codes and then she killed him,” continued Benton. “Julia is innocent after all. Everything she said about the discrepancies in the accounts was true. I have to call Ray.”

He marched across the hall to the front desk and picked up the phone, quickly dialling the number for the Twenty Seventh precinct of the Chicago Police Department.

“Isn't Sarah booked on a flight to Hong Kong this afternoon?” queried Bob.

“Yes,” confirmed Benton. “And she most likely has the diamonds with her. We have to prevent her from leaving the country.”

“Well don't just stand here chatting, get on with it,” said Bob, urgently. 

“There's no answer,” snapped Benton, as if it was somehow his father's fault. “I'll try his cellular telephone.” He clicked the receiver down with his finger and re-dialled.

“If only you'd realised this yesterday,” Bob continued, folding his arms across his chest.

“If I recall you were as convinced of Julia's guilt as Ray and I,” retorted Benton.

“Is there anything I can help with?” 

Benton spun round at the sound of Constable Turnbull's voice. ”Turnbull!” he exclaimed at his younger colleague who was standing in the doorway of Inspector Thatcher’s office. “You…you startled me. I thought you were at the trade meeting with the Inspector.”

“I was,” replied Turnbull. “But the Inspector felt the negotiations would progress more smoothly if I wasn't there after all.”

“I see,” nodded Benton. Obviously there had been some kind of incident, but he really didn't have time to hear the details now. 

“How long has he been standing there?” asked Bob. For a brief moment the ghost was convinced that the younger Mountie had made eye contact with him, but he quickly dismissed that thought as ridiculous.

Benton replied with a silent shrug. He'd had the same thought as his father. They'd been so concerned about Sarah Sambucci that they hadn't noticed Turnbull at all. How much of the conversation with his father had Turnbull witnessed? Benton was often able to explain away a brief response to his father in front of unintentional witnesses, but a whole conversation? Turnbull was not as much of an idiot as the Inspector thought so he would most definitely have seen and heard Benton apparently talking to himself for several minutes. His mind raced as he tried to think of a reasonable explanation. 

“Is Detective Vecchio not answering his telephone?” asked Turnbull.

“What? Oh!” Benton was suddenly aware of the ringing noise in his ear, he had momentarily forgotten he was still trying to get hold of Ray. He put the receiver down again. “I'll try the front desk,” he said as he dialled another number.

“Are you feeling quite alright, Sir?” Turnbull enquired.

This was it, Benton realised. His younger colleague was going to ask him why he'd been talking to himself like a madman. “I'm perfectly fine, thank you kindly for asking,” replied Benton, dragging his thumbnail across his left eyebrow as he spoke. 

“He doesn't look too convinced, son,” noted Bob, earning a scowl from his son. Luckily for both of them the Desk Sergeant at the Two Seven answered the telephone before Turnbull could push the subject any more.

“Squad Room. Detective Vecchio, please,” said Benton. “This is Constable Fraser. It is a rather urgent matter.”

He waited a few more seconds for the call to be connected, nodding an awkward acknowledgement towards Turnbull who was watching him in a manner which Benton found somewhat disconcerting. Finally he heard Ray's voice on the other end of the phone.

“Ah, Ray!” he exclaimed. “Julia is innocent. Sarah Sambucci murdered Brian.” He waited a moment for the information to sink in. “Yes, yes, I know...yes...exactly...very much so. I'll explain when I see you. We need to get to the airport, her flight leaves in an hour.”

“Fifty five minutes, actually,” Bob pointed out.

“That's very helpful,” sneered Benton sarcastically before he could stop himself. He glanced over towards Turnbull, but the younger Mountie was busying himself tidying the desk.

“I'll set off on foot and you can pick me up en route,” continued Fraser to Ray. “It will save you driving here from the precinct which should cut at least twelve minutes from the journey. I estimate our paths will cross outside the Seven-Eleven on Madison Street.”

Without saying another word, Benton replaced the receiver, picked up his hat and ran out of the front door of the Consulate with an excited Diefenbaker at his heels.

“Good luck, son,” said Bob, quietly. He would have gone with him, but it was almost time for the monthly meeting of his book club and he didn’t want to miss it. He turned and headed back towards his son’s small office.

“God speed,” said Turnbull, addressing the now closed front door.

Bob’s head snapped up at Turnbull’s words to see the young Mountie taking a seat at the front desk. He couldn’t explain why, but for the second time in just a few minutes he was convinced the man was looking straight at him. Turnbull’s choice of words could have been a coincidental response, but it didn’t feel that way to Bob. “Good luck, God speed,” he muttered and slowly he began to walk back towards Turnbull who had started shuffling through paperwork.

Bob paced to and fro in front of the desk as Turnbull worked, unable to take his eye off his son’s junior colleague. 

After almost five minutes, Bob had all but convinced himself that he was losing his marbles. “Perhaps this is what happens when you’ve been dead a while?” he muttered under his breath, but he continued to pace, not quite able to walk away until he was certain. After another five minutes, Bob stopped pacing and just stood in front of the desk with his arms folded. 

Turnbull had a pile of letters to sign on behalf of Inspector Thatcher and he worked methodically, using a fountain pen filled with blue ink to neatly sign each letter, then blotting the ink before moving onto the next one. 

Bob stared at him as he worked. He waved his hand in front of Turnbull’s face, but there was no reaction. He hummed a few verses of an old sea shanty he and Buck Frobisher used to sing when they’d had one too many beers after a long and difficult day, but Turnbull showed no sign of recognition. “I know you can see me,” said Bob. “I don’t know why, or how I know, but I just know.”

Still nothing. 

Bob sighed. The book club might have to do without him today.

Eventually, Turnbull cracked.

Without saying a word the young Mountie slowly lifted his head and looked directly at his colleague’s dead father.

“I knew it!” exclaimed Bob.

“I…I…I…” stammered Turnbull.

“Get a grip, Constable!” Bob commanded.

Turnbull nodded and swallowed hard. “It…it really is you,” he said. “Sergeant Robert Fraser.” As the realisation hit, Turnbull leapt to his feet and saluted. 

“At ease,” Bob instructed.

“Yes, Sir,” Turnbull nodded and stood at ease, if a little uncomfortably. “I must say, it’s an honour to meet you,” he said. “Your reputation is second to none, if I could live to be half the Mountie you are, or even a quarter, or perhaps an eighth…”

“Constable!” Bob interrupted him. “I get the picture. And I understand. It must be a huge honour to meet me, I’m very highly regarded. One of the most famous Mounties of all time, I would say,” he added without a hint of humility. “While we’re on the subject, next time you’re in Ottawa, can you remind the RCMP Memorial Foundation about my statue, I think they may have forgotten.”

Turnbull grinned at him, his eyes as wide as those of a child seeing Santa Claus for the first time. “I’ve always hoped to get the chance to meet you,” he said. “I know Constable Fraser talks to you. At least, I didn’t know with complete certainty…although I do now, I suppose… at least it’s safe to assume…I think, isn’t it?”

Bob narrowed his eyes as he tried to read Turnbull's face, but beyond the grin the younger man was, as always, impossible to make sense of. “You do realise I'm dead, don't you?” Bob asked.

“Oh yes, quite dead, sir,” Turnbull replied.

“And...and that doesn't surprise you at all?” 

“Not at all. I read the incident report, terrible business,” said Turnbull, shaking his head sadly. “I would be far more surprised if you'd survived being shot like that. And by a man you considered a friend, too.”

“Being murdered is not an experience I’d like to repeat in a hurry,” noted Bob.

“I met him, you know. Gerrard,” continued Turnbull. He was starting to babble now. “Well, technically I didn't meet him, but I knew he was there in Constable Fraser’s office at the old Consulate...even though Constable Fraser refused to confirm ...oh dear, maybe I shouldn't talk about this...?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” agreed Bob. “Getting back to my question, you're not surprised that I'm here now, talking to you?”

“Not entirely, no,” replied Turnbull. “I do encounter other… quite frequently, as it happens… encounter other people who are… people who are like you.”

“Dead, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“So this isn't your first encounter of this kind?” Bob asked with surprise.

“Oh no, sir. Not at all,” Turnbull replied. “From a very young age I could see people that no one else could see. Of course I didn't realise at first that they were people who had passed, I was too young to understand. I think my family must have thought I was a little...well, you know.” Turnbull winked and tapped his left temple with his forefinger.

“Indeed,” agreed Bob, although seeing people who did not apparently exist was probably not the only reason for others’ opinion of Turnbull’s mental state, he thought.

“As I grew older it became very confusing,” continued Turnbull. “But I began to realise that I had this particular ability. I was never certain until I saw Matt ‘Carpet’ McPhee standing right there on stage beside Clint Black.”

“I have no idea who that is,” said Bob.

“Was,” Turnbull corrected him. “Clint Black's original banjo player. Unless you count Sam ‘The Balloon’ Walton, but after that infamous incident with the pastrami sandwich no one in their right mind would consider him part of the band.”

Turnbull paused as if he expected Bob to have something to say, but Bob just stood there with a bemused look on his face, so Turnbull carried on.

“McPhee had been dead for eight months when I went to that concert,” he said. “It was all very sad. The fan club had organised carpet cleaning marathons in his honour. You know why they called him 'Carpet' don't you?”

“No idea,” admitted Bob. The surprise that Turnbull was able to see him had quickly worn off and now the young Mountie was really starting to irritate him. “Does it have any relevance to this story?” he asked.

“Not really,” replied Turnbull. 

“Then perhaps we can skip over that part for now?” suggested Bob hopefully. He was really starting to sympathise with Inspector Thatcher's short fuse when it came to dealing with Turnbull.

“Well there he was, playing the banjo just like he'd always done and at first I thought perhaps he was a lookalike, or maybe I was imagining the whole thing because, well, I must admit I was a little giddy at the time.”

“Too much of the local moonshine?” asked Bob. “Been there, done that,” he added with a chuckle as he remembered some of the more memorable evenings out with Buck Frobisher from their younger days.

“Oh no,” replied Turnbull. “I don’t partake of alcoholic beverages of any kind. I was giddy with excitement! This was my first ever Clint Black concert and he was playing some of his greatest hits – _Song for Keith’s Dog, My Heart’s Breakin’ coz I Lost My Hat, You’re Just a Fly in the Soup of my Soul_ \- all the greats.”

“I see,” nodded Bob, remembering why he wasn’t a big fan of country music.

“But he played the whole concert. Every song and no one else could see him,” Turnbull continued. “That was the first time I knew, really knew, that I...Constable Renfield Turnbull of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police...could see, could see…”

“Just say it,” urged Bob. “You can say the word, it doesn’t bother me. Only when my son feels it necessary to rub it in.”

“That I could see dead people,” Turnbull finished.

Bob nodded slowly as Turnbull finished his story. Up until now Bob had assumed that two people had to have had a very strong connection with each other in life for one of them to be able to see the other after their death. So far the only people who had been able to see him had been his offspring, Benton and Maggie, his best friend, Buck Frobisher and Gerrard, the man who'd murdered him. However, this theory apparently didn’t apply to Turnbull. Maggie’s existence had been a complete surprise, but he was absolutely certain that he was not Turnbull’s father.

“Why do you think that might be?” he asked the younger man.

“It’s funny you should ask,” replied Turnbull with a knowing look. “There are many excellent books on the subject. Pippa Pendlebury’s _The Ghost in your Coffee_ theorises that caffeine stimulates that part of the brain able to tap into another plane of existence.”

“Do you drink a lot of coffee?” asked Bob.

“No,” admitted Turnbull. “I do drink bark tea, though, so I thought it might be having the same effect.”

“I doubt it,” replied Bob. “There’s no caffeine in bark tea.”

“I hadn’t considered that,” admitted Turnbull, looking momentarily crestfallen.

“Whatever the explanation it’s been…um…interesting talking to you,” said Bob, keen to end this conversation before it got any more bizarre. “I should probably get going now.”

“Do you sleep?” asked Turnbull, suddenly.

“Sleep?” repeated Bob with a puzzled frown.

“Yes,” nodded Turnbull. “I’ve always wanted to know. And do you listen to music? Do you eat?”

“These are rather personal questions,” replied Bob indignantly.

“Oh…I’m so sorry,” said Turnbull, dropping his eyes to the floor. “I…I didn’t mean… It’s just that I’ve never really had the opportunity to ask. And people don’t understand.”

“I imagine they don’t,” replied Bob.

“The trouble is I don’t always know,” continued Turnbull. “I can’t always tell. It doesn’t always occur to me that some of the people I can see are, well, no longer alive.”

“A perfectly natural assumption to make,” agreed Bob.

“But other people – people who are most definitely alive – don’t understand,” said Turnbull. “And sometimes it feels like…it feels like…” Turnbull trailed off and sighed.

“Pull yourself together at once, you're a Mountie,” Bob instructed with a shudder. He was not at all comfortable talking about feelings. 

Turnbull hung his head and Bob felt a little guilty. Somehow he now had a connection with the young Mountie and he felt like he owed him the chance to talk. “Alright, tell me, how does it feel?” he asked. It sounded more like an interrogation than the empathetic approach Bob had been aiming for.

“Like a curse,” Turnbull said quietly, lifting his head slightly, but avoiding eye contact with the dead Mountie. “And I don’t mean any offence by that at all. I can assure you that the chance to talk to you today is probably one of the most important moments of my life…”

“Of course it is,” Bob interrupted him, haughtily. “Perfectly normal reaction. You could learn a lot from talking to me.” 

“I’m so glad you understand, sir,” said Turnbull with a shy smile. “Unfortunately not everyone is so accepting. That’s the reason I’m here today. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud to serve the RCMP in any capacity and I will always do my best, but I was only assigned here on a temporary basis after…” he trailed off and looked away from Bob again, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Spit it out, son,” Bob encouraged. He glanced at his watch and sighed. “In the next three minutes if possible,” he added, impatiently.

“There was an incident during my last assignment,” Turnbull said. “Not the first of its kind, unfortunately. I’d rather not go into detail, suffice to say that my superior officer did not look kindly upon my behaviour and I could not explain it to him because of the involvement of a certain – dead – Staff Sergeant for whom I was attempting to put right a mistake which had led to his rather untimely death. In doing so I had hoped to restore his reputation, but my actions only served to negatively impact on my own.”

“It sounds to me like your intentions were honourable,” said Bob. He studied Turnbull for a moment. An Inuit elder had once taught him about the art of reading body language and it had helped innumerable times in the apprehension of criminals, but you didn’t need to be an Inuit expert to be able to read Turnbull at this moment. His usual chirpy demeanour had been replaced with regret - heavy regret - and anguish and it looked like he was physically carrying it all on his shoulders. “I assume such incidents are not uncommon for you?” he queried.

“You are correct,” replied Turnbull, quietly. “Ever since my first posting. Actually, before my first posting, but I’d really rather not talk about that particular incident. It’s not easy to prove oneself to one’s superiors and therefore to progress one’s career when one is plagued by unwanted visitors. It can be…confusing.”

“I can’t pretend I understand why I’m here, or what any of this means,” began Bob seriously. “And I can’t speak for the others, but I’m sorry you’ve had those experiences.” He truly meant what he said too, he did feel genuine sympathy for Turnbull. Although he couldn’t see it, perhaps there was a highly skilled Mountie hiding in there somewhere? One who had been relegated to working as Inspector Thatcher’s housemaid due solely to an unfortunate and bizarre series of interventions throughout his life from the undead.

“I wanted to be…well, that doesn’t matter now,” continued Turnbull. “I’m here now and I’m proud to serve Inspector Thatcher and Constable Fraser in any way I can,” he said, a slightly pompous smile returning to his face. “And the Chicago Police Department and the people of Chicago and the people of our great nation of Canada,” he added, standing tall again and puffing out his chest.

Bob couldn’t help smiling at his enthusiasm. It rather reminded him of himself as a young man, fresh out of Depot and eager to get out into the field and start making a difference. He sincerely hoped that one day Turnbull would be able to reach at least some of his full potential.

“I’ll leave you to get on with your work,” said Bob.

“Thank you, sir,” replied Turnbull with an accompanying salute. “I hope our paths will cross again one day.”

Bob nodded in agreement and turned to leave.

Just then the telephone on the desk started to ring. Turnbull picked up the receiver. “Hello, Canadian Consulate… Bonjour, Consulat du Canada. You have reached Constable Turnbull… Je m’appelle Constable… Oh, hello Miss Vecchio. I’m afraid Constable Fraser has left to accompany Detective Vecchio in pursuit of a malfeasant. I see… Oh dear... oh dear.”

Bob had been half way back towards his office, when the sudden change of tone in Turnbull’s voice caught his attention and he turned and walked back towards the desk.

“I see… I see…no, I do not believe Constable Fraser was in possession of that information when he left,” Turnbull continued his conversation with Francesca Vecchio, but his eyes acknowledged Bob’s return. “Oh my goodness…I will attempt to contact them. I’ll call the airport, perhaps an announcement could be made over the public address system? Oh yes…yes, you’re right, that would attract the attention of the fugitives. Thank you, Miss Vecchio. Please try not to worry. I…I…I am a Mountie.” With that he put down the receiver and looked at Bob with worry etched into his forehead.

“What on earth’s the matter?” asked Bob.

“Constable Fraser and Detective Vecchio are walking into danger and the Detective is not answering his cellular telephone,” explained Turnbull, his voice modulating with panic. “The victim’s brother has discovered the true identity of the murderer and is on his way to the airport. Detectives Huey and Dewey are in pursuit, but they won’t get there in time.”

“The brother who just got out of jail?” asked Bob, hoping he was wrong. “The one who put two men in the hospital after a bar fight? The one who hates police officers so much he slashed the face of his arresting officer with a plastic fork?”

“That’s him, Sergeant Fraser,” confirmed Turnbull, twisting his fingers together anxiously. “And he is armed with stolen weapons. Miss Vecchio believes – and I agree with her – that he will stop at nothing until Sarah Sambucci pays for her murderous actions with her own life.”

“And if his previous performance is anything to go by he won’t care who gets caught in the crossfire,” noted Bob with concern in his voice. “You’re right, Constable. My son is in danger. The Yank too.”

“What are we going to do? What are we going to do?” Turnbull had descended into blind panic now. “Oh dear, oh dear… I’ll call… I’ll call, someone…” He picked up the phone and put it down again three times without attempting to make a call. “Oh dear, oh dear…”

“Constable Turnbull, pull yourself together!” Bob shouted and Turnbull stopped flapping around. “I’ll go. I can warn Benton.”

“Of course!” Turnbull’s face lit up. “Yes, yes, you can help them.”

Bob nodded and was about to leave, when Turnbull let out a high pitched squeal and Bob froze to the spot. “What is it?”

“This is why you’re here!” exclaimed Turnbull. “This is why I can see you! It all makes sense. It’s destiny, or maybe fate? To be honest I’ve never been sure of the difference. Either way, we were meant to work together today to prevent a tragedy!”

“Well I wouldn’t exactly call it working together,” frowned Bob as he pondered Turnbull’s words. “But you could be right.”

“This is one of the proudest moments of my career. Lives will be saved, justice will be served, this is why I became a Mountie,” continued Turnbull. Even if this was the first and last time he ever got to talk to the eminent Mountie, he would remember this for the rest of his life.

“Stop blithering, Constable,” Bob ordered. “Now, I've really go to go."

Turnbull stood to attention and saluted as the figure of Sergeant Robert Fraser faded out of view.

THE END.


End file.
